The Measure of a Father's Smile
by Wtiger5
Summary: Faramir fights twice to earn his lord's approval with two different results. Written for Teitho Contest: Smiles.


_A/N: Written after a nine month hiatus for Teitho Contest: Smiles. Beta read by Linda Hoyland. LOTR is property of JRR Tolkien and the Tolkien estate._

Faramir paced anxiously around the small tent that served as a waiting area for the combatants. He rubbed his sweaty palms down his breeches while he rehearsed his moves in his mind. He longed to be competing with his bow, but sadly, the bouts were restricted to swordplay only. He turned as his older brother lifted the flap and entered the tent.

"Are you ready little brother?"

"Yes, but I'm nervous, Boromir. Is Father here? Do you think I can fight well enough to please him?"

Boromir smiled at the barrage of questions from his younger brother. "You're going to do well, Faramir. Yes, Father is here, and I have no doubt that you are going to win this competition." He placed steadying hands on Faramir's shoulders. "Win or lose, I am proud of you and I will be cheering for you."

"Thank you, Boromir," the young man said softly. Just then, his name was called. He raised his head and squared his shoulders. He strode from the tent and out into the afternoon sunshine. He moved to his assigned place, determinedly focusing on his opponent and pushing all thoughts of his father's approval to the back of his mind.

Boromir took his seat at his father's side. He watched his brother engage his much more experienced opponent. He was impressed at the younger boy's prowess. Faramir was not only one of the youngest competitors in the competition, but he also favored the bow over the sword.

"He's doing well, Father."

Denethor barely glanced at his eldest. "We shall see. Up to now, he has been fortunate in his opponents. Of course if you were competing, there would be no comparison."

Boromir sighed at the dismissive tone in his father's voice. It seemed that despite Faramir far out performing expectations, the Steward refused to acknowledge his younger son's achievements.

* * *

"Second place goes to Faramir, son of Denethor of Minas Tirith!"

Faramir bowed as his name was called. His eyes turned upwards to catch his father's eye. To his dismay, Denethor's face remained impassive with no hint of recognition or approval for his younger son. Faramir struggled to quell the rush of disappointment that filled him. He lowered his gaze to the ground in front of him. He barely registered the announcement of the winner's name. The blood pounded in his ears. He had worked so hard to improve his sword work in order to make his father proud. He had failed. As soon as the competitors were dismissed, he left the arena behind him and headed for his chambers. As darkness fell, he remained in his room, not even noticing that he was missing the evening meal. He jumped as a sudden knocking sounded on his door.

"Faramir?" Boromir called from the hallway. He knocked again. When he did not receive an answer, he lifted the latch and entered his brother's chamber. "Little brother, why are you sitting here in the dark? We missed you at the evening meal."

Faramir kept his back to his brother, not wanting Boromir to see the dried tears on his cheeks. "It didn't matter to him, Boromir. He didn't even smile at me." He fought to keep his voice steady, lest he betray the depths of his emotions. He felt his brother's arms encircle him from behind.

"You fought valiantly today, little brother, and you brought honor to yourself and to our house. Do not let Father's indifference sway you from that belief."

* * *

"I present to you the combatants for the final round, Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor against Anborn, Captain of the Ithilien Rangers."

Cheers and ripples of applause rang through the spectators gathered around the practice court, several voices calling out the names of both men. Aragorn Elessar stood and lifted his hand in a gesture for silence.

"Prince Faramir, stand you ready for this contest?"

"I am, my lord."

"Captain Anborn, stand you ready?"

"Aye, my lord."

"Let this contest begin."

Aragorn sat down. Faramir and Anborn began to circle one another. Both men were evenly matched and having served together in the Rangers, they knew well each other's moves. The crowd grew tense as the match progressed. Neither man was gaining an advantage over the other. Suddenly, Faramir's feint caused Anborn to stumble. The Steward held the tip of his blade to his friend's neck.

"I yield. A well fought victory, my prince." Anborn lay down his sword and bowed to his friend.

Faramir returned the gesture before sheathing his sword and turned to face his liege lord.

"Well done, Prince Faramir. You are the people's champion. Come and claim your victory." Aragorn beckoned his Steward to join him. Faramir ascended to the King's side. He turned to face the crowd that was now chanting his name. He looked over to see a broad smile on Aragorn's face as the King applauded his victory. He felt a brief pang of grief at a painful childhood memory; how he had yearned for a smile of approval from his father. The memory quickly dimmed in the light of his King's obvious approval and joy in his accomplishment. The past was over. He would rejoice in the happiness of the present.


End file.
